


Fix You Up

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Blow Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 07:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19807354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: David's no genius; he's just a sentimental, thirsty idiot.





	Fix You Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kokopellifacetattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokopellifacetattoo/gifts).



When David had told Frank to get himself some body armor, he'd thought Frank would lean toward, you know, a vest, some Kevlar, normal, easy to acquire and replace type shit. As much dangerous, violent shit as Frank _constantly_ got himself into, David would have thought he'd go for something they could just keep in stock.

The bodysuit thing _should_ look completely ridiculous. It _does_ , actually, look ridiculous, David is perfectly aware of that. It doesn't matter how it seems to cling to every dip and swell of Frank's absurdly toned body, molding itself seamlessly to the edges of his augments. 

It's nice tech. David could have fabricated something nicer, if it had occurred to him that Frank was interested in... that. He was mostly just tired of seeing Frank torn up, his back and chest scarred enough from the damage that had cost him most of one leg and all of an arm. Frank couldn't seem to help being reckless, so David had finally snapped at him one day, carefully working on stitching up a nasty cut that ripped right from the anchor ports at his shoulder into the previously healthy meat of his back. 

At that point, David had been serving as Frank's mechanic (and on again, off again emergency medic) for over a year. Frank was a fixture in the lab, enough so that David himself rarely left it because he never knew when Frank might show up and need help. Or show up just to show up; he did that sometimes. 

David ran a business out of the lab. Frank only ever called ahead when he was coming during posted walk-in hours, which meant he _did_ know how to access the website _and_ use a phone, and just chose not to most of the time. If Frank called during walk-in hours, it meant he'd gotten into too much shit and wasn't going to be able to do anything to make himself less immediately recognizable as an infamous vigilante, so if David had customers he needed to make excuses to get them to clear out.

It cost money, cost him a couple customers, made his already underground operation a little more obscure. However, it also seemed to make the people who knew his work appreciate it more when they saw it, and he had a few more recurring customers out of the bargain, people who didn't mind him occasionally acting like a flake because that was just how 'geniuses act'. 

Which was bullshit. Geniuses would know better than to turn their whole lives upside down for a guy who was definitely going to die violently and early. A genius wouldn't have noticed one day that he'd forgotten to shave for two weeks because he'd fallen into such an intense routine taking care of Frank during a really bad infection and decided that the 'large, basement-dwelling creep' look was just going to have to be his thing to own, because he didn't have _time_ to deal with shaving every day.

A genius would have put his foot down and broken contact with Frank as a client/patient once he realized that Frank was _never_ going to stop putting himself in danger. 

David wasn't a genius, he was a sentimental idiot who loved a challenge.

A sentimental idiot, and occasionally a _thirsty_ idiot.

"You look like the lead dancer at a sleazy strip club," David informs Frank, watching openly as Frank pulls off his coat and his outerwear, dumping the shed pieces of his vigilante get up on David's couch. This is an old, old occurrence by this point, but getting to watch is still a treat. "That stupid fucking body suit, I absolutely cannot believe..."

"Yeah, I know you hate this thing," Frank mocks, kicking his boots off so he can get out of his trousers, leaving him in that skin-tight shrink-wrap thing that really leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. "I can tell by th' way you can't quit staring."

"Fuck you," David says amicably, stepping in to help. By this point he knows all the places to press on the suit to make the smart-fibers peel away from Frank's skin where he needs access. It _is_ stupid looking, it absolutely is, jet black and kind of shiny, clinging to every curve and line, but watching it tessellate into itself and fade away from the seam of scar tissue bordering Frank's augmented shoulder is almost as sexy as Frank just taking the damn thing off. 

It's easy to see the damage, immediately, and it's a relief to see that it's a simple fix for all that the augment has gone mostly unresponsive. 

“Okay, looks like you just pulled a couple connectors, the structure is all still sound, this'll be quick."

Frank lets David push him to sit on the couch next to his discarded clothes, kneeling beside him so he can get his fingers into the joint and get the rudimentary stuff done quickly. He figures the sooner Frank has both arms functioning the happier he’ll be. The hardest part is getting the dermal plates off using the hand tools on his belt, but short of making Frank get up and move to the lab proper, there’s not much choice.

He manages. Frank helps, patient. He’s got a considerable amount of bruising on his face, and the anchors for his augment have seen a good deal of strain recently. Frank doesn’t tell David more than he needs to know most of the time, at least when it comes to how he got his injuries. Getting information out of him can be like pulling teeth, but for this David doesn’t really need an explanation. It looks like Frank got kicked off someplace high up and used his augment to catch himself on the way down. The strain had pulled several connectors, though it’s obvious the augment had held up at least long enough for Frank to get back on level ground. 

Who knew how long Frank had been walking around with his arm on the fritz. He’ll show up just to show up and then two days later drag himself in for repairs to damage that clearly happened weeks earlier and had just been disguised by stubbornness and 'not seeming like a big deal'. 

This could have happened last night; this could have happened a month ago when he went after that weapons smuggling op. 

Getting the basics done is easy. His fingers hurt from being cramped at odd angles to get everything just so, and their filthy with grease and grime from the inner mechanisms, but as he sits back and nods, Frank carefully rotates his shoulder and moves his arm a bit, so David can watch the workings and make sure everything looks right. 

Easy job, but important.

When he starts to get up to grab the tools to properly reattach the armored dermal plates, Frank grabs him by the wrist and drags him back down. “Not even gonna let me say thanks,” Frank asks, giving David opportunity to find a more comfortable position against him. “You gotta work on your bedside manner, Microman.”

He’s the only one who calls David that. He’s known for his work, he’s _sought after_ in certain circles, known all over as Microchip. A lot of folks shorten it to just ‘Micro’, but not Frank. Frank calls him a lot things, but he seems to prefer things further from what anyone else calls him. He’ll use ‘David’ or ‘Micro’ in a pinch, but it’s not where he tends to go in a good mood. ‘Lieberman’, ‘Chip’, ‘Microman’; those are Frank’s preferred for him, and David finds he really doesn’t mind. 

“You sound dumber than you look when you call me that,” David grumbles against Frank’s mouth, and he can feel Frank smile as they kiss, just as he can feel solid, warm metal curving around his bicep, flesh-and-bone fingers sinking into his hair, working the ponytail holder out. Frank likes to fuck with David’s hair and then mock him for it looking a mess. Honestly, David thinks he’s just jealous because David’s not the one showing signs of balding.

Sitting there kissing with half Frank’s clothes piled around them, that stupid bodysuit now the thinnest cock-block in the world, David sighs at the gentle feeling of Frank's metal hand rubbing over his arm. Frank seems to like his arms, god knows why. Frank's arms are gorgeous, both of them; one a feat of engineering David has every right to be proud of, and one finely sculpted from muscle. Frank's body is ruthlessly in shape, especially set next to David's padded in fat and just sort of big and awkward looking.

David's strong; he has to be, in this line of work, but he doesn't look strong, not the way Frank does. He doesn't have abs or ripped muscles to flex and show off. And David doesn't really want any of that, either. He just doesn't quite understand what Frank gets out of touching him.

He lets Frank get his hand worked under the hem of his shirt, leaning back to feel the metal digits dig against his back, but he pulls away when Frank starts trying to kiss at his neck. “How many times… I’m not fuckin’ you on this couch, Frank,” he says, and Frank hums, pulling him back in so he can bite at the skin between his beard and the collar of his shirt. He knows David’s throat is a hot spot; once he figured it out he spent an evening edging David without touching below the waist, working him up and up until he was so close he thought it was impossible for him to hold off cumming and then _still_ not giving him satisfaction. 

In the end, David had ended up pinning Frank down, jerking them both off while Frank sucked bruises into the side of his neck.

“I’ve got clients that use this couch,” he protests, half whining as he fumbles for the hidden buttons that will make the stupid body suit disappear the rest of the way off Frank’s chest. 

Frank just laughs, that low, breathy sound. He always sounds surprised that he’s found something funny enough to actually laugh at when he’s not just being an asshole and pretending to laugh. It’s a nice sound, one of David’s favourite sounds, and David hits him for it anyway, slapping his non-augmented shoulder. 

“It’s not sanitary, come on.”

There’s this look Frank gets, where he’s somewhere between looking at David like he’s hung the moon and looking at him like he’s the dumbest mother fucker alive. “You fucked me on the exam table the first time we ever fucked,” he says, and David groans. 

“Metal. Easy to sanitize,” David says, completely undermining his own words as he smooths greedy hands over Frank’s chest, raking fingers through the matted down hair of his chest. “I can’t bleach the couch. Lemme finish fixing your arm and we can go--”

Bastard. Oh, he is such a bastard.

Frank rolls them neatly, moves David easily despite David being several inches taller and solid. He gets David sprawled against the arm of the couch and moves, smooth and neat, to kneel on the floor between his spread knees. 

“Counterpoint,” Frank says, grinning up at him as his fingers are getting through the trick of David’s belt. “We stay right here and you don’t make a mess.”

Honestly, David knows he absolutely should put his foot down, insist on going back to his apartment -- or the floor, at least, something he can wipe down easy, not give in, be firm about this.

But there’s Frank, leaning in to lick him through his underwear, Frank eager and willing on his knees, that absurd skin-tight suit folded away to the waist and his hands big and warm on David’s thighs. And David is no better than any other thirsty idiot presented with this sort of sight; he wants, and he’s not going to say no when Frank’s literally right there. 

“You’re gonna ruin me,” David says, gasping softly as Frank gets his underwear down around his thighs. “Completely unprofessional.”

“You can thank me later,” Frank says, and David can’t argue after that, can’t really think, which is all fine and fair. If this is the kind of gratitude he can expect for going stupid for this man, he can just about handle it.


End file.
